


Hello Stranger

by Aini_NuFire



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Amnesiac Castiel, Caring Sam, Castiel in the Bunker, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s08e17 Goodbye Stranger, Gen, Heavy Angst, Memory Alteration, Protective Dean Winchester, With a chapter of Christmas fluff, episode AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-21
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-08 05:18:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5485034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aini_NuFire/pseuds/Aini_NuFire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“He’s in there somewhere, Dean. He has to be.” But what if he wasn’t? What if the Cas they knew was gone forever?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“We should let him out of the dungeon.”

Dean jolted from his blank stare and blinked at his brother. “What?”

Sam gave him a canted look. “We can’t keep him in there forever.”

“I know that,” he replied somewhat irritably, and snatched up his half-empty beer bottle. The brew was lukewarm and failed to wash down the bitter taste in his mouth. “And if he tries to fly off? Or attack us?”

“We’ve got sigils all over the place. No angel is getting in…or out. And I think he would’ve tried something by now if he wanted to hurt us.” Sam leaned back in his chair with a sigh. “Dean, we have to do _something_.”

“Kevin is working on the angel tablet. If there are any answers, that’s where they’ll be. So in the meantime, we can just sit around twiddling our thumbs.”

“We could talk to him.”

Dean pushed himself to his feet a little too quickly. “He’s not Cas.” He lifted the bottle to take another swig, forgetting how bad it tasted. Shaking his head, he turned and strode for the kitchen. But dammit, Sam wasn’t going to let this go, for his little brother was up and on his heels.

“He’s in there somewhere, Dean. He has to be. He stopped himself, before he…”

_Killed you._

Dean rolled his neck, remembering the snap of bones, the anvil fists pounding his flesh, the copper taste exploding in his mouth.

_“Cas. I know you’re in there. I know you can hear me.”_

Cas, his friend, angling his angel blade up to drive into Dean’s chest.

_“We’re family. We need you. I need you.”_

Cas’s fingers letting go and metal clattering on the floor. And then his hand reaching toward Dean’s face. Dean begging him, realizing that this was it; Cas was going to smite him.

Only, his touch had mended torn tissue and shattered bone, taken all the pain away—the physical pain at least. Dean had blinked up at him in bewilderment.

_“I’m so sorry, Dean.” Cas said miserably, even as blood began streaming out of both his eyes._

_“Cas?”_

_Cas reached up to hold his head. “Take the tablet and go! Before she comes.” He flinched as though something had struck him._

_Dean’s hand twitched with the urge to reach out. He didn’t though, having no clue what the hell was going on. He could only watch helplessly, unable to fight an invisible enemy…and who was his enemy anyway? Cas? Or this Naomi?_

_Cas stumbled back a step and curled in on himself. “I can’t stop her, Dean. She’s controlling me, and I can’t stop her.”_

_Dean’s heart dropped into his stomach. And then Cas’s gaze fixated on something on the floor, his posture going rigid. Dean stiffened, immediately searching for the tablet. He spotted it among the bits of broken rock a few feet away, but that wasn’t what Cas lunged for. It was the angel blade._

_And Dean had stood there, frozen, heart clenching with the belief that the beating would start all over again. Therefore he didn’t fully process when Cas turned the blade on himself. He didn’t move or shout when Cas slammed against the wall, blood pouring from his nose now too, hands shaking as he appeared to be fighting some invisible force preventing him from stabbing himself. Dean had no doubt Cas would have won—the look in his eyes as he met Dean’s stunned gaze was so full of heart-wrenching desperation followed by steely determination—but Sam had arrived, and, acting quicker than Dean, knocked Cas out from behind._

_Sam shot him a frantic look, but didn’t waste time asking questions. “We got to go—now.”_

“Dean?”

He tore himself from the memory and blinked. “What?”

Sam heaved a sigh. “Were you listening?”

Dean dumped his stale beer down the sink. “I heard you, Sam. I just don’t think there’s any point.”

“What the hell is wrong with you? You’re giving up on Cas, just like that? This wasn’t his fault!”

“I’m not giving up on him!” Dean smacked his palm on the counter. After a moment of regaining control, he rubbed a hand down his jaw. “And I’m not blaming him for what happened.” No, he was blaming himself. He’d known, ever since Samandriel, that something had been off about Cas. How had he gotten out of Purgatory? How could he _not_ remember? And what had Dean done? Nothing. And why? Because he was pissed at Cas? For the Leviathan, for Sam’s wall, hell, even for choosing to stay behind in monster land?

Well, now he was the only one nursing those sore spots, because the angel who had apparently erased Cas’s memories of escaping Purgatory had done a whole lot more than that. It’d been a week, and Dean and Sam were confident this bitch couldn’t reach Cas in the bunker, but the damage had been done.

_Cas lifted his head, eyes slowly opening to gaze around the dark room. He paused at the Enochian sigils painted on the walls and floor underneath the chair he was chained to with spelled manacles. The Men of Letters sure had their resources. Cas frowned, giving the cuffs an experimental tug. Then he looked up at Dean and Sam standing in front of him._

_“Hey, Cas,” Sam said softly when it was clear Dean wasn’t going to speak. “How are you feeling?”_

_Cas roved his gaze around the room again. “What do you want?”_

_“Uh…” Sam’s brow furrowed. “Well, for starters…um, do you still feel the urge to kill Dean?”_

_Cas stared at them for a long moment. “Who’s Dean?”_

o.0.o

Sam approached the bookcase concealing the dungeon with apprehension. It just felt _wrong_ for Cas to be locked up inside there. He’d been stoic and laconic since waking up, more or less like the emotionless heavenly soldier of few words they’d met four years ago. He hadn’t even been hostile at being kept prisoner, though Sam had tried to convince him it was for Cas’s protection.

Taking a deep breath to steel himself, Sam pulled the knob for the racks to slide apart. Cas sat with his back straight in the chair, head held up and staring unblinkingly ahead. He cocked his head ever so slightly as Sam entered.

“Hey, Cas.”

“I have told you many times, my name is Castiel.” He looked away, almost with a hint of exasperation. “I do not understand your refusal to address me properly.”

Sam held back a sigh as he pulled the chair from the corner and sat in front of the angel. It was a tired argument. Castiel insisted on them using his full name, whereas Sam hoped using the nickname the Winchesters had given him would spark some long-lost memory. So far though, it wasn’t working. Naomi had wiped everything—not just the past several years with the Winchesters, or Cas raising Dean from Hell…but _everything_. Castiel knew he was an angel, knew it was his mission to watch and protect the earth, but that was it. He didn’t know the Apocalypse had started and been averted, didn’t know that God had left the building long ago, didn’t know all the things he’d done while fighting Raphael.

Sam rested his arms on his thighs, interlocking his fingers. “It’s a term of endearment.”

Cas did that bird-like head tilt thing.

After a prolonged moment of silence, Sam spoke again. “I was thinking it’s probably real uncomfortable in here. Maybe we should set you up in a proper room.”

“You should release me.”

Sam shook his head. “Naomi’s still out there, and we can’t risk her snatching you up again.” _Though what more could she possibly do to shatter their lives?_

“Kevin’s working on deciphering the angel tablet, and we’ll find a way to fix you, I promise,” he continued, chest constricting. The words sounded so similar to the promise he’d made to a mentally unbalanced Cas, one who made sandwiches and collected honey from bees.

Castiel straightened back to his ramrod posture. “I am not broken. Your insistence otherwise is unfounded and baffling.”

Sam bit his lip, and after a moment, tentatively reached forward to place his hand over Cas’s. The angel angled his gaze down to regard the contact curiously.

“I know you don’t understand right now…” Sam swallowed around a lump gathering in his throat. “But you’re family to me and Dean, and we’re not giving you up. Cas. Castiel.”

The angel simply stared at him as Sam drew out a key and bent over to unlock the shackles. He felt a flutter of trepidation as the manacles fell away from Castiel’s ankles, but refused to show it as he sat up again and met Cas’s eyes. With the sigiled cuffs, he wouldn’t be flying off or using any of his angelic powers, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t attack and beat Sam into the ground.

Cas didn’t though, and merely allowed Sam to draw him to his feet and escort him out of the dungeon.

o.0.o

Dean headed back to his room, intending to put on some rock music and blare it in his ears in order to drown out his festering thoughts and guilt. He pulled up short when Sam rounded the corner, Cas in tow. The angel still wore the sigiled handcuffs, though the long chain gave him full range of movement. Dean tensed, ready to leap in should Cas try to make a break for it, but the angel dispassionately entered one of the vacant rooms Sam gestured to. Sam followed, and Dean heard his brother’s muffled voice pointing out the bed and desk, and asking if Cas wanted anything to read. When Sam emerged a minute later, shutting the door behind him, Dean managed to relax a fraction.

“You sure about this, Sam?” he said brusquely.

Sam waved a hand sharply for him to keep his voice down as he strode forward. “If he was gonna Zero Dark Thirty us, he would’ve done it already.”

“Cas can be patient.”

“He still believes in his mission to protect humans.”

Dean snorted. “Yeah, ‘cause it’s not like good-little-soldier Cas wasn’t ready to sacrifice a whole town or nothin’.”

Sam threw him a bitch-face. “At this point, he’s probably just a flight risk. And I think we have a better chance of winning him back if we _try_ to befriend him. I mean, we did it once before.”

But then that was it, wasn’t it? They had been friends, _family,_ who had gone through so much together Dean had the emotional baggage to prove it. So how could he just set all that aside and go back to the way things were? He couldn’t forget the past few years simply because Cas had. Dammit, this wasn’t even the first time he’d had to deal with an amnesiac Cas. So why was this time harder?

Sam’s expression turned sympathetic, as though he could read Dean’s mind. “You should go talk to him. Seriously, Dean. If he’s gonna remember anything, it won’t be on his own.”

“Has he remembered anything yet?” Dean retorted, perhaps too harshly. This wasn’t like last time where smiting some demons helped “Emmanuel” remember he was an angel. No, Cas knew who he was…well, who he used to be.

The shift in Sam’s eyes and the drooping of his shoulders made Dean feel like a dick. He rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah, okay. I’ll talk to him.”

Sam gave a small nod of encouragement. “I thought I’d find something for him to read, so he’s not staring at the wall.” He moved past Dean to head for the library.

“Dad’s journal,” Dean said without thinking.

Sam paused on the steps. “What?”

Dean rolled his shoulder in discomfort. “I dunno. On that case with Fred Jones, when we were still researching, Cas seemed to enjoy reading Dad’s journal.”

Sam’s brow furrowed, but he didn’t comment. “Okay.”

“Okay.” Dean found himself standing alone in the hall, torn between retreating to his own room, and knocking on the door just a few feet beyond it. Anxiety twisted his gut into knots, and for a second, he considered taking the cowardly route. But Sam would be all over his ass until he gave in and actually talked to Cas. Not that he hadn’t tried those first couple days, but staring into that utterly blank expression as his best friend didn’t recognize him…

_Grow a pair_ , he berated himself, and knocked on Cas’s door. After a moment of no response, he knocked again. Now he was getting frustrated. Here he was making an effort, and Cas couldn’t even acknowledge him? Dean was about to storm away in anger, when he leaned his head against the door in crushing realization. _This_ Cas probably didn’t know he was supposed to answer when someone knocked.

After taking several deep breaths, Dean turned the knob and stepped inside. Cas was sitting on the foot of the bed, arms resting in his lap with the chain bundled under his wrists. He was staring at the wall, and yeah, Sam was right; guy needed a hobby.

Dean cleared his throat. “Hey.”

Cas blinked at him. “Hello.”

No, _“Hello, Dean,”_ and dammit, his eyes were not prickling with moisture. He cleared his throat. “How you doing?”

“I wish to leave.”

Dean suppressed a sigh. “Yeah, I know. But—”

“It’s for my protection,” Castiel interrupted. “So you’ve said repeatedly. I know you and Sam believe that to be true, but I am _an angel_. I do not need ‘protection’.”

Dean ran a hand over his hair. How was he supposed to have a conversation with Cas when it always went the same way? They couldn’t let him go, and as long as he felt he was a prisoner—which, dammit, he was—he had no reason to trust them.

“A lot’s happened out there, man. Angels have gone rogue, demons have access to angel blades now, Leviathans—” Dean’s voice hitched slightly. “Are loose. It’s a lot easier for an angel to die now.”

Castiel gave him a condescending glare. “And two humans think to protect one angel from all that?”

Dean clenched a fist. Oh, he so did not miss when Cas had been a dick that first year they’d known each other. Getting the stick out of his ass had been enough of a challenge the first time around, and now Dean had to do it again?

“Not just any angel,” Dean said around a sandpaper throat. “You. Our friend.” He held up a hand when Cas seemed about to protest yet again. “Yeah, I know you don’t remember. I can tell you all about it…” Well, not _all_ of it, and certainly not some of the more shitty parts, not right now. “But it won’t matter ‘cause you won’t believe me anyway.” God, why was he even here? The ensuing silence felt suffocating, and Dean was on the verge of turning tail and running when Cas spoke up abruptly.

“I hear your prayers.”

Dean stiffened. “What?” He hasn’t been praying, not with Cas down in their dungeon and not knowing him from Jack.

Castiel turned his head to appraise him thoughtfully. “In your sleep, sometimes you pray in your dreams. I hear them.”

Dean’s jaw went slack. Oh, wasn’t that friggin’ awesome. What the hell was he even saying in those dreams? All he really remembered was snippets of fighting his way through Purgatory, his stay in Hell, and sometimes Cas beating him to a bloody pulp. Yeah, that was an image Cas needed.

“Your prayers are irreverent,” Castiel said haughtily, but then his mouth turned down. “Yet…they are genuine.” His brow pinched in classic confused Cas that made Dean’s chest want to split open.

“I do not understand,” Castiel finally said wearily.

Dean didn’t know what to say to that. Hesitantly, he took a step toward the bed, then another. When Cas didn’t react, he slowly sat down next to him. “What do I say?”

“Sometimes you are praying for help. That I understand; many humans pray for deliverance in times of trouble.”

Dean forced himself not to fidget. “What else?”

Castiel’s lips thinned. “Other times you are yelling. I believe you are angry with me. Yet other times you…” His face pinched as though he couldn’t find the words. “Are asking if I am okay, and begging me to come back.” Cas craned his neck to look at Dean head on. “Why do you pray so much to _me_?”

Dean felt that annoying lump returning, threatening to choke him. He briefly flashed back to that night in the crypt, when another Cas who’d also been a stranger was staring down at him with that blank expression of nonrecognition. He’d said it then, in a moment of desperation when he thought he was about to die, clinging to some hope so deeply rooted inside him that it couldn’t be cut out, no matter what the world threw at them or how much they screwed up.

“Because. I need you, Cas.”

Castiel’s stare bored into him, down to his soul, just like he used to. It always annoyed and unnerved Dean, but this time he stared back into those intense blue eyes…and there was some flicker there, something fleeting yet very real. Dean didn’t dare to hope; but he suddenly wasn’t ready to give in to despair either.

Cas turned to face the door again. “Then I will stay.”

Dean let out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. It was a start at least. Maybe it would be a long road to repairing what’d been broken; maybe Cas would never truly remember. Either way, Dean and Sam were gonna stay by his side. Because that’s what family does for each other.


	2. Chapter 2

Sam stared at his computer screen, the pixels blurring into bright smudges. A glass of water and plate with a sandwich sat on the table next to him. It’d been there for the past three hours, and he’d only taken one bite. With Dean out running errands, Sam hadn’t needed to force down the food under his big brother’s hawkish hovering.

He glanced at his forearm and clenched a fist, remembering the yellow glow and searing burn that had coursed through his veins after completing the first trial. He didn’t know what it meant, only that he knew the incantation had worked; he’d begun the process to close the gates of Hell.

And then there was that damn tickle in the back of his throat, and Sam reached for the glass. He wanted to know what the second trial was, wanted to get going on it before whatever these side effects were got worse and he wasn’t strong enough. But the angel tablet had become priority, and Sam didn’t begrudge that. He wanted Cas back—whole and well again.

It’d been five days since they’d let him out of the dungeon. Dean’s talk with him seemed to have gotten them somewhere, and Cas stopped demanding to be let go. The sigiled cuffs needed to stay on though. Partly to ensure he really wouldn’t fly off, despite what he’d told Dean, but also because they couldn’t be sure exactly what was keeping Naomi out of his head, if it was just the warding on the Men of Letters’ bunker or the spelled cuffs locking Cas’s grace down. Sam and Dean had cut the chains at least, so now he was just stuck wearing the metal rings like bracelets. Though he’d appeared exasperated at the brothers’ explanation for why they were necessary, he didn’t ask them to be removed.

Things were…awkward. Sam tried coaxing Cas out of his room to spend time with them, though he was more often than not a silent fixture. It wasn’t as though the Winchesters had many past-times to engage in either, and the one thing they did regularly—hunt—Cas couldn’t participate in. Sam thought maybe getting out and helping them with a case…riding in the Impala like old times…would help jog his memory. But it was too risky.

So they were stuck confined in the bunker, not quite knowing what to do with each other. They’d established a pattern of watching a movie every night, and at first, Cas had sat like a statue in his chair, dutifully staring at the screen until the credits rolled and he went back to his room like a teenager who’d finally been excused from mandatory family time.

It wasn’t until the third night that Cas didn’t immediately get up to leave when the movie finished. Instead, he’d sat there with a puzzled expression before finally speaking up.

_“Traveling through time requires a great amount of power and focused will. It is impossible for that vehicle to randomly deposit Marty in the exact time his parents were supposed to meet.”_

_Sam and Dean exchanged a look. “Well,” Sam said as he popped the DVD out of the player. “It’s not hard science. Sci-fi is kinda more fantasy in terms of how they manipulate reality.”_

_“Their manipulation is incorrect.”_

_Dean rolled his eyes. This was familiar territory: trying to explain human imagination and pop culture to an over-logical angel._

_Sam cleared his throat. “You took us back in time to save our parents once.”_

_He saw Dean tense the way he always did when they brought up the past, that choked hope that Cas would remember something, even just a sliver._

_Castiel gave Sam a dubious look. “I can’t imagine why I would do so. The past cannot be changed. Contrary to what this movie would have people believe.”_

_“Another angel went back in time to kill them so she could change the future,” Dean interjected, voice rough. “That’s what you helped save them from.”_

_Cas’s mouth set in a pensive line, the one Sam had come to recognize as the angel wanting to argue that no such thing ever happened, yet choosing to keep quiet so he wouldn’t upset Dean. If his brother knew it as well, he never pushed, and the conversation dropped as easily as the dozens of other ones they’d tried to initiate._

Footsteps sounded on the steps, and Sam looked up as Castiel entered the study room. He set a four-inch tome and legal pad filled with pen strokes on the table.

“I have finished.”

After Cas had noticed several of the books in the Men of Letters’ library were in ancient languages, he’d offered to translate them for the Winchesters. Even without his memory, he was still trying to be useful.

Sam smiled. “Thanks, Cas.” The angel had also given up insisting they use his full name, muttering something about the stubbornness of Winchesters.

Cas scanned the bookshelves. “Which volume would you like me to do next?”

“You can take a break, you know.”

“I don’t require rest.” Cas cocked his head. “Unlike you. You look unwell, Sam.”

“I’m fine,” he insisted, even as a traitorous cough wracked his frame. He bowed forward, chest aching with each violent punch as his body tried to expel the irritant.

A napkin appeared in his field of vision, and Sam snatched it up desperately. The coughs continued for another minute, and when they finally ceased, he stared at the bright red crimson speckled on the napkin. _Dammit_.

He straightened to find Cas standing at his shoulder, brow furrowed.

“Should I call Dean?”

“No!” Sam swallowed hard and reached for the water, gulping the last of it to wash down the coppery taste in his mouth. Some water dribbled out and he wiped his chin. “No, I’m fine.”

“You are not. You’re damaged in ways even an angel wouldn’t be able to heal.”

Sam closed his eyes, remembering Cas saying the same thing outside the crypt. There hadn’t been time to ask what he’d meant then.

“Damaged?” he said tremulously.

Cas regarded him thoughtfully. “It’s something on the subatomic level, and your electromagnetic field…” He looked at his manacled wrists as though wishing the cuffs gone, but Sam thought he saw a pinch of regret rather than annoyance. “I truly do not know what it is…and I’m sorry I can’t fix it.”

Sam rolled his shoulder. Even if Cas could heal him, he probably wouldn’t risk it by taking the cuffs off. “It’s okay, man.”

Sam knew the trials were changing him in some way. But did “damaged” mean broken, or could it mean destruction in order for purification? Such as forest fires strip away the old so new can grow lush and healthy?

He cleared his throat. “I, uh, started trials to close the gates of Hell.”

After a brief pause, Castiel nodded in sudden understanding. “That is a noble endeavor. If there is any way I can assist you…”

A small smile tugged at Sam’s mouth, even as a rock dropped into his stomach. _“Always happy to bleed for the Winchesters.”_

“We don’t even know what the second trial is. Kevin’s gotta decipher the demon tablet first.”

Cas frowned. “Yet you said the prophet is working on the angel tablet? Why? Shutting the gates of Hell is more vital than…” He trailed off, looking frustrated and at a loss for words. Castiel drew his shoulders back. “Why are you and Dean wasting valuable time and resources on something so unimportant?”

“It’s important to us.”

Cas shook his head. “If you close the gates of Hell, Lucifer will not be able to rise and the Apocalypse will be averted.”

Sam took a deep breath. “Lucifer already got out. The Apocalypse started four years ago, but Dean and I stopped it. We put Lucifer back in the Cage.”

Castiel actually let out a small snort. “That is quite impossible.”

“You helped.” Sam forced his composure to remain relaxed. They’d tried broaching this topic before, but Cas never believed them.

“None of the Sixty-Six Seals have been broken. If they had, I would have been sent to earth with my brothers to combat it.”

“So why are you on earth now if it hadn’t happened?” Sam prodded.

Castiel opened his mouth, then closed it as his brow furrowed in thought. “To be ready for when it does happen,” he said simply.

Sam couldn’t hold back his sigh. One would think with how many gaps Naomi left in Cas’s brain-scrubbing, it’d be easier to poke holes in it. But the bitch had apparently also wiped Cas’s ability to question _anything_. Talk about factory reset.

Sam leaned back in his chair, gaze drifting to his computer. Though he and Dean had agreed not to hunt until they sorted this situation with Cas out, Sam had been searching for signs of angel activity. Naomi hadn’t gotten the tablet, and she didn’t strike them as the kind to give up easily. And if she came down from Heaven herself, maybe the Winchesters could trap and interrogate her, get her to reverse what she’d done.

An advertisement flashed in the right column of the news blog he’d been skimming, and it took a second for him to realize what it was for. _Supernatural_. The books. Chuck’s books. Chuck had chronicled their lives for the world, all the way up through the end of the Apocalypse. Sam was about to close the laptop in irritation when a thought struck him.

_“The names of all the prophets are seared into my brain.”_

Sam sat up straighter. “Cas, do you know the prophet Chuck?”

Cas quirked a confused brow. “Of course. Chuck Shurley, the prophet who will write the Winchester Gospels.” He frowned and glanced at the floor. “Wrote. He wrote the Winchester Gospels. Chuck preceded Kevin Tran in the line of prophets.”

A spike of adrenaline surged through Sam, and it took every ounce of effort to tamp it down and keep quiet. He couldn’t fill in the blanks; Cas needed to figure it out himself.

The lines around Cas’s eyes tightened in concentration. “Winchester…”

Sam held his breath.

Cas took a step back, shifting in discomfort. “My apologies. I…did not make the connection.” He appeared embarrassed and distressed over the revelation.

_That’s it_ , Sam urged, heart jackhammering now. _Question it; push against the fabrication._

When Cas’s look of concentration began to slip, Sam jumped in carefully, “That’s okay. So, you know who we are, what we’re supposed to do?” That probably meant Cas would now look at him as an abomination, the boy with demon blood, and Lucifer’s vessel, but Sam could get over it. One step, one crack was all they needed.

Cas squinted at him, and for a minute it looked as though he was in pain. Stomach clenching, Sam remembered all the blood that’d been streaming from Cas’s eyes, nose, and ears that night in the crypt when he’d been fighting Naomi’s control. Would breaking through whatever she’d done hurt him?

But then Castiel’s features smoothed. “I have not read the Winchester Gospels, so I do not know what they entail. But now I understand why I am here: you and your brother are servants of Heaven, and I will aid you in your task to close the gates of Hell.”

Sam had worked hard at keeping disappointment off his face whenever Cas failed to remember something, but this time he couldn’t stop himself. He felt his eyes pinch and mouth tighten, shoulders slumping in defeat. He’d been so close, had almost grasped a tiny, frayed thread that would unravel what Naomi had done to Cas.

But the longer this went on, the more Sam began to believe that there was no loose thread, no chink in the wall that the right amount of pressure would bring crumbling down.

Castiel took another step away from Sam and turned toward the bookcase. “I shall refine my translations to texts dealing with demonology.”

Sam felt his heart break just a little more as he watched Cas retrieve the next volume and a fresh legal pad before retreating to his room.

o.0.o

Dean had sworn to burn any copies of Carver Edlund’s _Supernatural_ books that he came across, but the call he’d gotten from Sam earlier had him heading straight to the nearest bookstore to buy up every one they had on the shelves. So far, the Winchesters had agreed not to give Cas too many details about the past, not only because of all the shit he’d done with Crowley, going Godstiel, then crazy, then brainwashed…

Dean shook his head. No, they’d tried telling him about things before that, but Cas hadn’t believed them. Said he’d never been to earth before, or Hell, said he would _never_ disobey orders, that he served Heaven wholeheartedly. And didn’t that just stink of Bible Camp, Dean thought bitterly as he remembered those same parroted words after Cas came back from being recalled for trying to warn Dean about Lilith. He wondered if this Naomi had had something to do with getting Cas back in line that time. Well, her methods hadn’t stuck then, and Dean would be damned if they did now.

So he bought the stupid books that detailed their shitty lives like it was pulp fiction, and drove back to the bunker. If Cas wouldn’t take his and Sam’s word for it, he could read it straight from the prophet’s mouth.

Dean parked the Impala in the bunker’s garage and then went to get the shopping bags from the trunk. He hesitated though; what if the books weren’t enough? What if Cas still didn’t believe them? They needed proof, dammit, but there was nothing, no physical signs that Cas had ever been part of their lives. With a pang, Dean realized that if Naomi had won and taken Cas back to Heaven, he wouldn’t have a single token to remember his best friend by. Not even the damn trench coat, which he’d carried around when he thought Cas was dead by the Leviathans.

Dean’s knuckles whitened on the lid of the trunk as he stared at the Impala’s bumper. There were few things in his life that held sentimental value—a byproduct of living on the road and traveling light. He’d taken Cas for granted, believing the angel would always be there when Dean needed something. Just a prayer or phone call away.

_“You know, it’s kind of funny, talking to a messenger of God on a cell phone.”_

_“This isn’t funny, Dean. The voice says I’m almost out of minutes.”_

Dean’s chest tightened. They’d had to get Cas a cell phone when he’d been cut off from Heaven and couldn’t hear prayers. Watching the angel struggle with human technology had provided a lot of amusement though. Dean let out a strained laugh at Cas’s voicemail.

_“I don’t understand why, why do you want me to say my name?”_

God, he wished he still had that phone so he could play it for the Cas sitting inside the bunker. Not that the message would have been accessible after four years of inactivity. Dean closed his eyes and rested his forehead against the back of his hand, still holding the trunk open. Would it have been too much to take a damn picture?

His stomach twisted into uglier knots as he remembered that night before they’d gone to hunt the Devil with the Colt. Ellen, Jo, Bobby… They’d burned that picture. Dean couldn’t have known how desperately he would wish to have it someday.

_Wait_ … That wasn’t the only time he’d instructed Cas to stand in front of a camera.

Pulse leaping into overdrive, he flipped up the trunk’s false bottom and frantically rifled through the weapons stash. Adrenaline was coursing through him now, and he roughly shoved shotguns and blades aside, searching for that one tiny wallet amidst years’ worth of accumulated supplies. Was it even still in the Impala? It could easily have been lost over the years. But, no, dammit, Dean needed this.

He was now throwing things out onto the floor. The entire trunk would have to be reorganized, but he didn’t care. Just when he was about to give up and punch something, Dean froze, finally spotting a black leather card holder wedged in the back corner. His lungs seemed unable to function as he reached in and pulled it out. Running his thumb over the smooth exterior, Dean took a deep breath and slowly unfolded it, revealing one of their fake ID badges. _“Agent Eddie Moscone.”_

And there was a photo of Cas: mouth pressed in a tight line, eyes slightly pinched in that, _‘What are you doing, Dean?’_ expression as Dean had taken his picture.

Dean nearly sagged, and he clutched that badge as though it were life itself. Maybe, just maybe…

Shaking off his nerves, he scooped up the shopping bags containing the _Supernatural_ books and headed inside. Dean didn’t dare pray. God had left the building long ago, and it seemed dangerous to send any messages toward Heaven where who knew what angel might intercept them. And he certainly fought the urge to pray to Cas, because that was just uncomfortable for them both. But he could hope, even if doing so killed a little piece of him every time his efforts failed.

Okay, one prayer. So small and broken that even if God were listening, he probably wouldn’t hear it among the clamor of the rest of humanity’s pain.

_Please_.


	3. Chapter 3

Castiel stared at the words on the final page of the last _Supernatural_ book. He had re-read them countless times by now, and still he did not understand. The events described in these volumes were…outlandish. And they certainly did _not_ happen. Castiel would _never_ rebel against Heaven. He was a good soldier, obedient.

Yet…these were the words of the prophet, Chuck Shurley. Castiel knew that as instinctively as he knew the names his father had given the stars. He frowned. Shouldn’t he have known the identities of Michael’s and Lucifer’s vessels as well? That answer was simple, of course: it obviously wasn’t his place to know.

But how was this possible? Perhaps the events had not come to pass yet. Though Sam and Dean said they had. No, that _couldn’t_ be right. Why would Castiel rebel against Heaven, his most sacred duty, for two humans?

He put his head in his hands. Perhaps for the same reason he’d agreed to stay with Sam and Dean in the bunker, despite being kept under lock and key. He’d heard Dean’s prayers, his petitions that came from the depths of his heart, full of sincerity and a faith that was barely holding on. For reasons Castiel could not grasp, he felt the urge to protect this man, to answer his prayers when it seemed no one else would. How strange was that? Yes, his mission was to protect humanity, but why Dean Winchester, whom Castiel had not even recognized as the Righteous Man? Castiel even felt responsible for Sam— _Lucifer’s vessel? No, the young man was trying to close the gates of Hell._ And it grieved Castiel on more levels than he could fathom that he couldn’t heal Sam’s ailment.

But angels were not meant to care. They were meant to follow orders. He knew that, more assuredly than he knew anything else. And yet…it was clear that what he thought he knew was wrong. That there were gaps in his knowledge. His memory. He’d noticed, in his conversations with Sam, that there appeared to be some inconsistencies, but he never questioned. It wasn’t his place. … Was it?

With the Winchester Gospels spread around him, he now knew what he was missing. He just still didn’t _understand_. How could he not remember all these events? Sam and Dean said an angel named Naomi had erased Castiel’s memories. Perhaps that was true, though she must have had a good reason. Obviously, he had rebelled and needed to be corrected. Yes, she’d fixed him.

Castiel’s brows knit together. There was something so immediate and unquestioning about that declaration, yet hollow. It was not borne of conviction. And as he sat there, reviewing the last several books he’d read, seeing some other version of himself that was a stranger, he began to understand what it meant to believe in something—and that was a faith he did not possess. He had orders, he had duty…but it was rote, something practiced and repeated to the point it was mechanical. What did he believe in? Did he believe in anything?

According to the Winchester Gospels, Castiel, this other Castiel… _“Cas”_ —believed in Dean, believed in humanity’s right to free will, believed in standing by them at the cost of everything he knew, everything he was. He’d _fallen_ for that belief. Died for it. _Twice_.

He pressed his palms against his eyes. No, he didn’t want it to be true. He didn’t want all these doubts, these questions.

When he lowered his hands, his gaze landed on the leather case Dean had given him with the bag of books, saying not to look at it until he’d finished reading them. With tremulous fingers, Castiel reached down and picked it up. The flap fell open, revealing a badge, hanging upside down. Castiel felt as though a rock dropped into his stomach as he gazed at the tiny picture in the corner. Turning the image right side up, he found himself staring at…himself.

No, not him. This other Castiel.

_“And when humans want something, really, really bad, we lie.”_

_“Why?”_

_“Because. That’s how you become President.”_

Castiel believed Sam and Dean had been lying to him all this time. He knew they wanted something from him, something he couldn’t give, and that’s why they had been weaving this fabrication. Only now, Castiel was filled with doubt as he fingered this badge that _was_ _real_. And he’d read about it in the books. If the fiction was true though, then what did that make the reality in his head?

A knock pounded insistently at the door. “Cas?” a muffled voice called.

He jerked up, having been so lost in thought, he hadn’t realized the knocking had been going on for several moments. He was supposed to grant entry, though he didn’t understand why. This was the Winchesters’ bunker; they could go wherever they pleased.

“Yes?” Castiel replied weakly.

The door eased open, and there was Dean, looking concerned, hopeful, and lost all in one. And Castiel was the source of that pain. It hurt almost as much as discovering that he was living a lie.

Dean swept his gaze over the books spread across the bed and desk. “You didn’t come out for breakfast or lunch. I was getting…um, everything okay?”

Castiel looked away, unable to bear the raw emotion in those green eyes. “I’m sorry. I…lost track of time.”

He’d started reading those books yesterday afternoon, which meant he’d missed last night’s dinner as well. And the movie. Not that Castiel ate or understood pop culture, but his presence for those things had been important to Sam and Dean. Apparently though, leaving him to these books had been more of a priority.

“Good reading?” The tightness in Dean’s voice belied his attempt at levity.

Castiel shifted, and chanced looking at Dean again. There was one last proof, one last sign that this was not some elaborate ruse or misunderstanding. “Is it true? The scar?”

Dean blinked, slightly taken aback, but then he slowly nodded. “Yeah, it’s still there.”

Castiel cleared his throat awkwardly. “May, may I see it?”

Dean rolled his shoulder, appearing in as much discomfort as Castiel, though he did not understand the reason behind either of them. What was Castiel afraid of? That everything he knew was actually a falsehood set up in his mind by another angel to keep him obedient and pliable, a good soldier? Or that somehow in this chaotic cosmos, he belonged to a family that accepted him despite his flaws and brokenness, and it wasn’t Heaven?

Dean shrugged out of his flannel button-down and then rolled up the sleeve of the t-shirt underneath.

Castiel felt something hard and thick clog his throat as he gazed at the raised handprint mark on Dean’s shoulder. It was there, just as the books had said. And according to them, _he_ had given Dean that mark. _He_ had gripped the Righteous Man and raised him from Perdition.

Swallowing hard, Castiel rose to his feet and moved closer. Yes, he sensed it now; how could he have missed it before? The trace of his grace, the profound bond that’d been established when he’d rescued the human soul and knitted his body back together. Castiel reached out to touch the mark, but stopped when he noticed Dean fidget. Instead, he curled his fingers into a fist and dropped his arm.

“Thank you,” he said, voice sounding more gravelly than usual. “May I please be alone? I, I need to think.”

Dean smoothed his sleeve back down, covering the scar. “Yeah, uh, sure.” He picked up his flannel shirt and turned to leave. Pausing with his hand on the knob, he angled a look over his shoulder. “Sam and me, we’re here. If you want to talk, or whatever. You know that, right?”

Castiel looked away toward the wall, brow pinching. He wanted nothing more than to unfurl his wings and flee these terrifying, conflicting realities. To hide from the ardent hope mixed with crushing dejection on Dean’s face. But the cuffs prevented him from doing that, and the Winchesters would not remove them. Castiel was trapped, facing a myriad of inconsistencies and roiling emotions an angel was not meant to experience. _Why_ were they doing this to him? Why couldn’t they just let him go?

With sagging shoulders, Castiel knew why. He now knew more than he wanted. Because if everything Sam and Dean had said was true, it meant he was broken after all.

“Yes, Dean,” Castiel said in defeat. “I know.”

o.0.o

“How’d it go?” Sam asked anxiously.

Dean shrugged. He didn’t know what he’d expected. For Cas to read those books, look at that badge, and miraculously remember? Yeah, and Santa Claus was real.

“I think he realizes we’ve been telling him the truth.”

Sam let out a breath of relief. “That’s good. It’s a start at least.”

“He didn’t seem all that happy about it,” Dean muttered. The look on Cas’s face had just about killed him. Confusion, intensity, those were typical Cas. But the pain and brokenness…it was the same way he’d looked when he’d found out God had stopped caring about his children. Mentally kicking himself, Dean realized _that_ revelation had just been dumped on the angel again, along with everything else. At least Cas couldn’t fly off to a liquor store this time, though perhaps Dean should hide their stock.

“Give him a break, Dean. How would you feel if you found out some psycho angel had wiped away all your memories? Denial had to have been easier.” Sam pursed his lips and glanced at the hall. “How long should we give him?”

Dean shook his head. He didn’t have an answer. The books, the FBI badge, his scar, none of it had sparked the desired recognition in his best friend. And if those things hadn’t done it, Dean was out of ideas. So now they were down to waiting on Kevin and the angel tablet, and dealing with a likely depressed angel who had just had his entire world shattered, courtesy of the Winchesters. Again.

He pushed out of the chair and went to grab a beer. _Hypocrite_. He could drown his woes, but he wouldn’t give Cas the option? Maybe he should just offer the angel some liquor. But he was too much of a coward to go back downstairs, so he stayed in the common room, nursing his grief, with his little brother periodically glancing up from his research to give him sympathetic looks from across the table.

Cas didn’t emerge from his room for the next few hours, not until it was dinner. Sam had stuck a frozen pizza in the oven, as Dean had been too tipsy to cook by then. He sobered up a fraction when Cas appeared in the doorway, looking sullen and hesitant.

“Hey, Cas,” Sam said gently. “You wanna come in and sit?”

Cas craned his neck over his shoulder as though regretting coming up, but after a moment, he entered and stiffly sat across from Dean at the kitchen table. A ‘you okay?’ died on Dean’s tongue before he could ask it. Of course Cas wasn’t okay.

Sam poured a glass of water and set it in front of Dean, pointedly nudging his bottle of beer aside. Then his brother sat between him and Cas. The silence aside from the ticking kitchen timer was awkward and annoying, but no one seemed eager to break it.

“You probably have lots of questions,” Sam finally ventured, hope tinging his voice.

Cas’s eyes pinched, and it was another moment before he responded. “The last entry in the Winchester Gospels says you were stuck in the Cage with Lucifer.”

Dean’s fingers twitched toward his beer, but at a covert look from Sam, he snatched up the glass and gulped water instead.

“You got me out.”

Cas’s eyes widened in surprise. “Oh.”

He fell silent again, and Dean rolled his neck.

“What…what happened after?”

Sam’s expression tightened. “Well, the archangel Raphael tried to restart the Apocalypse, but you stopped him.”

Cas looked at him dubiously. “How?”

“Not entirely sure,” Dean jumped in, shooting Sam a sharp look. “You didn’t tell us much about angel business during that time.”

Cas frowned. “So, if Raphael was defeated, who…this Naomi, who is…how did she…” Brow scrunching in consternation, Cas looked down and away.

“Shortly after Raphael bit the dust, the Leviathan escaped from Purgatory,” Dean said. “You helped us gank the head, Dick Roman, but we were sent to Purgatory with him. I got out, but…” His voice almost cracked, and Dean quickly took a sip to cover it up. “You didn’t. Not until Naomi got you out, and she messed with your head, was controlling you.”

Cas’s forehead creased as he seemed to be battling the need to pick apart those events with that cold logic against the blind acceptance Naomi had ingrained in him. “ _Why_? Why would she…for what purpose?”

“She wanted the angel tablet.” _And you to kill me_. Dean could feel his brother’s eyes boring into him. Yeah, he was leaving a lot out, but he had good reason. This last bit though…if it helped Cas understand…

Dean cleared his throat. “She tried to make you kill me.”

Cas whipped his head up, expression horrified.

“You didn’t,” he said quickly. “You fought her, Cas. You damn near killed yourself to keep her from winning.” He had to make Cas understand, had to make sure Cas wouldn’t feel guilty over this. Because the guilt was Dean’s to bear.

“We’d found the angel tablet in one of Lucifer’s crypts, and Naomi wanted you to bring it to her. When you fought against her control…” Dean shook his head. “She hurt you. I don’t really know. She was in Heaven and you were here on Earth, but she had her claws in you. We tried to get you out of there, back to the bunker, but by the time we did…it was too late.” His throat constricted. “I’m sorry, Cas.”

Cas looked at him in bewilderment. Yeah, it was a lot to take in.

“If,” he said shakily. “You tried to save me…then you have nothing to apologize for, Dean. As you said, she was an angel, and you are just a man.”

The corners of Dean’s eyes began to burn, and he blinked to hold back the moisture. Maybe he was just human, but that had never stopped him before, not when it came to saving Sam. He should have tried harder for Cas. After everything Dean had done wrong, _this_ he should have done right. But how did he convey all that when the angel was missing half the backstory as it was?

“That’s why we left the cuffs on,” Sam spoke up softly. “We don’t know if they’re what’s keeping Naomi away, or if the bunker itself is secure. We couldn’t risk experimenting.”

Cas dropped his gaze to the metal bracelets. “I understand now,” he said in a quiet, lost voice.

Sam reached over and settled his hand on Castiel’s arm. “We’ll fix this, Cas. There’s gotta be a way, okay? And Dean and I will kill Naomi so she can never hurt you again.”

Cas looked up, eyes sad with resignation. “I doubt that will be possible.”

“Hey, you read those books,” Dean interjected somewhat roughly. “You know what we’re capable of when someone messes with our family.”

Castiel’s brow pinched as he searched Dean’s face, looking for either confirmation or sincerity. Dean met his gaze with as much resolve as he could muster. He was making Cas a promise; no matter how long it took, they _would_ kill Naomi for what she did.

Cas ducked his gaze. “I…I am tired. Would it be alright if I didn’t join you for the movie tonight?”

Dean’s chest tightened. They’d been making progress with that, slow but _something_. Still, the breakthrough they’d just had was much more significant. So why did it feel like shit?

“Sure, Cas,” Sam answered. “We’ll see you tomorrow.”

Castiel nodded and stood up from his chair. Dean watched his back as he exited the kitchen and disappeared into the hall. Sam got up and went to the arch, waiting until Cas had gone for sure. Then he turned back to Dean with an expectant look.

“When do you plan on filling in the rest of the story?”

Dean snatched up his beer again and took a swig. “Never.”

Sam arched his brows. “What? Dean, that’s a lot of background.”

“He doesn’t need to know about Crowley and the Purgatory souls,” Dean snapped.

“Look, I know it’s not exactly flattering, but he has a right to know.” Sam scowled. “You tried this when you hid the fact that I’d gone around soulless for a year. Yeah, it sucks, but it’s better I _know_ , Dean.”

“You wanna tell him that when he dug you outta Hell, he did a piss-poor job?”

Sam’s lips thinned, and he glanced toward the hall before lowering his voice. “I forgave him for that, Dean. If he knows that we forgive him, that we still care about him…wait, have you _not_ forgiven him for all that?”

“My forgiveness has nothin’ to do with it.” He stared at the beer bottle. It wasn’t as good at taking away his pain as it used to be. ‘Cause the scars just kept piling up. Maybe Dean still held some resentment and anger toward Cas, but yeah, he’d forgiven him for screwing up. It wasn’t like he and Sam hadn’t done it plenty of times themselves. If Dean was so intent on including Cas in their little dysfunctional family, then that meant he was bound to mess up too. Heck, it was more or less a requirement for them.

“Then what is it?” Sam demanded. “You think you’re protecting him by hiding the truth?”

“I am protecting him!” He bit his lip and forced his composure back under control. He didn’t need Cas hearing them from all the way in his room.

_“You know, I can hear you both. I am a celestial being.”_

Dean rested his arms on the table. “That case with Fred Jones, when Cas first got back from Purgatory…” He sighed. “He admitted to me that he was afraid to return to Heaven, that if he saw the devastation he’d caused when he was power-drunk, he might kill himself.”

Sam’s mouth parted slightly.

“Yeah.” Dean sat back and rubbed his face. “You saw him that night in the crypt. He was trying to _kill_ himself.”

“Because he was afraid of hurting you,” Sam said quietly.

“Or because he knew he already had.” Dean shook his head. “He doesn’t need the guilt, not right now. Especially if he never even remembers.”

“Don’t think like that, Dean.”

“I’m just sayin’. I think we’ve put him through the wringer enough to last a month.” _Or a year._

Sam was silent for a moment. “Okay. But, Dean, acknowledging our mistakes is how we learn from them.”

Yeah, and Dean’s mistakes had contributed to Cas going down the path he had. “One problem at a time, ‘kay Sammy?”

Sam nodded. “Fine. So what now?”

Dean shrugged. Cas knew the truth, but it hadn’t restored his memories. Team Free Will was still broken and hanging together by a thread. So, business as usual then.


	4. Chapter 4

Sam thought things would be different now that Cas knew the truth and actually believed it. But the next day, he’d gone back to translating the archives. Sam and Dean waited for him to approach them, to say something about their conversation last night, to ask more questions. Cas didn’t bring it up at all. And for a horrible moment, Sam began to wonder if Naomi had set up some kind of reboot switch that automatically flipped when Cas got too close to the truth.

Dean was starting to prowl around the bunker like an agitated grizzly, and _that_ inevitable confrontation wasn’t going to help things. But what could they do? Cas had to deal with this in his own time.

Sam dragged Dean into the kitchen to make sandwiches for a late lunch. He actually had his appetite back, so maybe things were looking up. Sam put the ham and cheese sandwiches together while Dean heated up a frying pan to grill them.

At the sound of someone clearing their throat, they both paused and turned to find Cas standing by the table.

He rolled his shoulder awkwardly. “I have been thinking about…things.”

Sam exchanged a guarded look with Dean. He’d agreed not to bring up Crowley and the Purgatory souls, but if Cas asked them something directly, Sam didn’t want to lie. They were trying to gain Cas’s trust, and Sam would absolutely not do anything to jeopardize that.

“Yeah?” he asked, leaning back against the counter.

“I want you to instruct the prophet to resume his work with the demon tablet.”

Sam blinked. “What?”

“I understand you want to help me regain my memories, but discovering the trials to close Hell is of utmost importance.”

“Cas—” Dean tried to interrupt, but he plowed on.

“I know the truth, and that is enough for now.” Castiel ducked his gaze, and then added softly. “Please. I am…asking this of you.”

Sam bit back his urge to protest, and shot Dean a sharp glare to do the same. Cas asking something for himself was a monumental breakthrough, considering he’d more or less been programmed to follow orders and never think of his own desires. They couldn’t shoot him down right away, no matter how much they disliked the idea.

A muscle in Dean’s cheek twitched, but he didn’t say anything for a long moment. “Are you sure, Cas?” he finally asked. “Because we’re not giving up on you, no matter how long it takes.”

Cas nodded firmly. “Yes, I’m sure. And if you…mean that, then we can revisit the issue after the gates of Hell are shut.”

Sam frowned. ‘ _Revisit’ the issue?_

Dean shook his head and reached into his pocket for his cell phone. “Okay. I’ll call Kev and let him know.”

“One more thing,” Cas spoke up. “You and Sam need to return to hunting.”

“Uhh…” Dean glanced at Sam warily, who immediately tensed. Crap, if Cas wanted to accompany them on hunts…

“I know I cannot help,” Cas said hastily, and then looked down morosely at the sigiled bracelets. He curled his hands into fists. “But I can stay here and continue translating the Men of Letters library.”

Sam eyed him suspiciously. Was Cas trying to get them out of the bunker so he could formulate a means of escape? Just because the angel knew from some prophet’s books that the three of them were friends, didn’t mean he trusted Sam and Dean. In fact, if Sam was in Cas’s position, he might be considering flying off to confront the angel who’d wiped his memories in the first place.

“We’re taking a break from hunting right now,” Sam said.

“Yeah, man, we’re not just gonna take off and leave you alone,” Dean added.

Cas drew his shoulders back stiffly. “I don’t want to be the reason innocent lives are lost. You and Sam need to be out there saving people, not worrying about a broken angel. I promise I won’t try to leave.”

Sam narrowed his gaze at Cas. Okay, he and Dean had said they were gonna find a way to “fix him,” so it wasn’t a leap for Cas to call himself broken. It was the way he said it though, in something like pragmatic acceptance.

“People are always in danger,” Dean said. “Whether Sammy and me are on the road or not. I’ll agree to focus on the trials, but we aren’t taking off.” He paused, waiting for Cas to meet his gaze. “I’m not gonna abandon you, Cas.”

Cas’s brow pinched as he stared back, and then his shoulders slumped in partial defeat. “Very well. I shall return to my work now.”

Dean watched him go, looking as though he were chewing on something sour. “‘Kay, wasn’t expecting that. Think he’s gonna try and slip out on us?”

Sam pursed his lips in thought. “Dunno.” He turned back to spread butter on his sandwich, though he didn’t really feel like eating anymore. “Hey, can you finish these up?”

Dean arched a brow at him mistrustfully. “I thought you were hungry.”

“Yeah, I am. I just, wanna check something.” Not waiting around for Dean’s ‘bullshit’ face, Sam turned and headed out to the library where he found Cas seated at one of the study tables, ancient book open on one side, legal pad on the other. Sam made sure to walk noisily into the room so as not to startle the angel, not that he could likely sneak up on one anyway. He frowned at how far Cas had gotten in the six-hundred-page tome since yesterday.

“Cas, have you been at this all night?”

Castiel didn’t even look up. “The Men of Letters’ collection is quite extensive; there is much work to be done.”

Sam sighed in frustration. He wasn’t an advocate of pushing, but Cas was downright hiding from everything, and that wasn’t going to help matters.

He ran a hand through his hair. “Look, Cas, I know yesterday was upsetting, but don’t you think we should talk about it?”

Cas finally paused in his writing and quirked a brow. “Why?”

“Because it might help you get your memory back.”

Cas shook his head. “As we agreed, closing the gates of Hell is the higher priority right now.”

“No,” Sam said slowly. “Closing the gates of Hell can come before deciphering the angel tablet. That doesn’t mean we can’t try to help you remember on your own. I know the situation isn’t ideal, that we can’t take you to places we’ve been before, but we can talk—”

“I don’t want to.”

Sam took a breath. “I can’t even imagine what you’re going through right now, Cas, but talking about it can help.”

Cas dropped the pen and leaned back stiffly in the chair. “I don’t want to remember.”

Sam blinked in bewilderment. “What?”

“I don’t want to remember. I just want to be a good angel.”

“What makes you think you’re not?” he asked nervously. Was Cas remembering pieces after all? Pieces that Sam and Dean had kept from him? If he was getting snippets or flashes, especially from recent years, some of it had to be downright frightening without context.

Cas made a derisive sound. “Good angels do not disobey orders, or fall, or need to be corrected by Naomi.”

_Corrected?_

“Whoa, wait a minute, Cas. Naomi didn’t ‘correct’ you, she tortured you. And no matter what you did, there’s no excuse for that.”

Cas looked toward the wall. “I’m better this way.”

Damn, Dean had been right. Cas didn’t even know _half_ the details, and already he was feeling guilty, like he _deserved_ this. But was that how he truly felt, or was it part of Naomi’s programming?

“Why would you say that?”

“I _betrayed_ Heaven,” he said despondently, as though that was the answer to everything.

Sam sat in the chair across from him, leaning forward on the table earnestly. “If you hadn’t, half the world would have been destroyed, and Dean and I would be dead.”

Cas frowned, and at least looked distressed by that thought. “I am glad you and Dean are safe. And I am glad I am still able to help you, for however long my reduced usefulness will last.” His mouth twisted with some dark thought he didn’t share, but it made Sam’s stomach clench. Denial, anger, even despair, were all natural responses to what Cas was going through. Sam had experienced those things himself, had seen Dean deal with it. What terrified him though, was the prospect that whatever little voice Naomi had planted in Cas’s mind would keep him from overcoming it. And Sam had no idea how to combat that.

“You should go back to the kitchen,” Cas said abruptly. “Dean finished cooking your food several minutes ago, and he will be very curmudgeonly if you don’t eat.”

Sam didn’t move as Cas returned to his work, pointedly ending their conversation. After a moment, he finally got up and left the library. He’d thought the hardest part would’ve been convincing Cas of the truth. He’d been wrong.

o.0.o

Dean shook his head as he hung up from talking to Kevin. Kid was losing it, thinking Crowley had gotten into his head. Dean had tried to calm him down, pointed out that if Crowley knew where Kevin was, he’d do a lot more than mess with his head. Besides, that seemed to be an angel thing, he thought bitterly.

In any case, Kevin was eager to go back to the demon tablet and stick it to the demons that had ruined his life. Dean couldn’t really blame him. Kevin didn’t know Cas, not really. His first impression of the angel had been in the loony bin. But Cas had fixed the kid’s severed finger not long ago and he could show some gratitude by trying to help them fix Cas now.

Jaw tightening, Dean glanced at the sandwiches he’d set on the table. There was Sam though, and the trials. Dean wasn’t blind; he saw how the first trial was affecting Sam, and while part of him wanted to get that show back on the road, another part was scared that it would only get worse. Dammit, how was he supposed to choose between helping his brother and helping his best friend who was like a brother to him?

Dean sank into a chair. He hadn’t had to choose, not in the end. Cas had made the decision, putting himself last when it came to the Winchesters. Again. God, how could a guy with no memory of himself still make the same self-sacrificial choices?

Footsteps on the stairs drew his gaze up as Sam walked in. “Was beginning to think you didn’t like my cooking,” he grumbled.

Sam’s mouth was pressed in a thin line as he took a seat next to Dean. “I was talking to Cas.”

“Yeah?” Dean snatched up his sandwich and took a bite. The ham was cool, the cheese rubbery, but better to have his mouth full in case Sam was lookin’ to start a conversation he wasn’t ready to have.

“He says he doesn’t want to remember.”

Dean nearly choked, and quickly swallowed. “What?”

“Yeah.” Sam leaned back and crossed his arms wearily. “He’s in full on avoidance mode. Doesn’t want to think about it, acknowledge it, or fix it.”

Dean let his sandwich drop back onto his plate. He had not been expecting that. “Why?”

Sam shook his head, a low growl of frustration building in his throat. “I don’t know. Hell, I don’t know how much of what he thinks is _him_ and how much is Naomi’s brainwashing. He said he wants to stay like this and be a ‘good angel,’ be useful to us. While he _can_.”

The rest of Dean’s appetite vanished as his gut turned to lead. _Son-of-a-bitch._ Naomi had done one hell of a number on Cas. It wasn’t bad enough she’d wiped his mind, she had to install her little Bible Camp mantras as well?

Sam ran both hands through his hair. “I don’t know what to do, Dean.”

And that just sucked the rest of the oxygen from Dean’s lungs. Sam always knew how to deal with victims, how to be sensitive and understanding and coax people into opening up. If he was at a loss with Cas…

No, Dean knew what they needed to do. It was what he should’ve done years ago, and then maybe all of this could have been avoided. But only hindsight was twenty/twenty.

Dean cleared his throat. “Okay, we drop trying to make him remember.”

Sam shot him a horrified look. “Wh-what the hell are you saying?”

“I’m saying we respect his decision.” Dean held up a hand. “I’m not saying we never have Kevin translate the angel tablet looking for a way to restore Cas, but when it comes down to it, it needs to be his choice.”

Something cold and paralyzing tried to curl around his heart. Saying that killed a piece of him. Because what if Cas never changed his mind? Dean had no intention of leaving him trapped in the self-deprecating mental trap Naomi had constructed—though was remembering all the horrible things he’d done any better?

Dean steeled his resolve. “You said it yourself, Sam, we need to win Cas back. _This_ Cas, right now. So we support him, whatever he decides. And we make sure he knows that we still care about him, even if we have to say it twenty times a day for the rest of our lives.”

Dean had told Cas they weren’t giving up on him, no matter how long it took. And he damn well meant it. So if Cas didn’t want to remember, Dean wouldn’t push. He’d be the friend Cas needed, and if his memories didn’t resurface on their own, hopefully Cas would change his mind someday and they’d look for a supernatural fix. Patience may not have been Dean’s strong suit, but he’d try. Because he wasn’t quitting on Cas, no matter which version he had.

Sam was staring at him now, completely flummoxed. “Okay…who are you and what have you done with Dean?”

“Shut up,” he groused, rolling his neck in discomfort. Yeah, he was probably signing on for a shit-load of chick-flick moments, but he didn’t care. Cas was stuck with the Winchesters, and Dean wasn’t going to let it be a punishment if he could help it.

“Now eat your sandwich,” he said. “And don’t blame me if it’s cold. Bitch.”

Sam hesitated a moment before picking up the bread and saying quietly, “Thanks. Jerk.”

o.0.o

Dean found Cas in the library, toiling away at some old text. He supposed it was good Cas wasn’t retreating to his room to work, but then he realized all the _Supernatural_ books were still in there, and Cas was most likely avoiding even looking at them. He should probably ask if Cas wanted to keep them or store them somewhere else.

Dean stood in the study room for almost a minute, but Cas didn’t look up or acknowledge him. _Okay, ‘avoidance’ was an understatement._

“Yo, Cas.”

Cas flinched, which made Dean frown, and the angel looked up reluctantly. “Yes, Dean?”

“Can we talk?”

Castiel leaned back in resignation. “I doubt you would accept ‘no’ as an answer, so go ahead.”

Dean’s brows knit together. Great, he was going to push Cas in order to tell him they weren’t going to push him? No need for Naomi to give him conflicting messages; Winchesters had that down pat long before she came on the scene.

“I just came to say that if you don’t want your memories back, that’s fine.”

Cas blinked and angled a distrustful look at him.

“I’m not gonna push that on you,” he insisted, closing the distance to the table. “Between you, me, and Sam, we’ve had a lot of shit in our lives, and there are things I wish I could forget too.”

_“Look me in the eye and tell me you’re not working with Crowley.”_

_“We were family once. I’d have died for you. I almost did a few times. So if that means anything to you…”_

_“I’m gonna find a way to redeem myself to you.”_

A hard lump in Dean’s throat threatened to choke him. Those things were done and gone. Cas took on Sam’s Cage scars, broke his own head doing so, then ended up in Purgatory and hunted by monsters for a year. And then he’d friggin’ stayed behind to ‘do penance.’ The bastard. If he hadn’t, if Dean had just _told_ Cas he forgave him… Dean gave himself a small shake. _Don’t be stupid_. Naomi still would’ve gotten her hands on Cas anyway. She just wouldn’t have had to reach as far.

“Dean?” Cas said cautiously, breaking into his thoughts.

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah. What I’m tryin’ to say is I get it. And I want you to know that it’s okay. That even if you never remember—” Dean swallowed hard. “I’m still gonna be your friend. I’m still gonna be here for you.”

Cas had shifted his eyes to stare at Dean’s shoulder, maybe at the scar hidden underneath, maybe just to avoid meeting his gaze.

Dean stepped forward to jerk Cas’s attention up. “I need you to understand something though. Memories, no memories, full-powered angel, de-powered, Mr. Librarian or couch potato, I want _you_ here, Cas. Not for how you can help us or be useful, just you.”

_“I’d rather have you, cursed or not.”_

Cas’s mouth turned down. “I’m not sure I understand. Do you not want my help?”

Ugh, how was he gonna get it through Cas’s thick skull? Dean clapped a hand on his shoulder, forcing Cas to look him in the eye. “I’m grateful for your help, Cas. Sammy and me are grateful. But that’s not _why_ we want you to stay. Hell, even if you got fed up with these boring books and quit translating them to watch movies all day, we’d still want you here. Because you’re family. Not a damn tool.”

Dean took a deep breath. “And I don’t know what little voices are whispering in your head, but I need you to hear me on this: you’re _not_ a bad angel. I’m gonna be honest, you’ve made some mistakes, and we’ve had our disagreements, but you always did the best you could. Hey—” He squeezed Cas’s shoulder when Cas started to look away again. “Do you believe me?”

Cas squinted as though hearing all that pained him, and it was a long moment before he let out a soft answer, “Yes.”

Dean’s throat constricted, though he swore he wasn’t going to let himself drift into tear territory. “Okay then,” he said hoarsely. “Now, if you want to stay here and keep reading those dead languages—because you find them fascinating, not because you want to help—that’s fine. But if you’d like a break, I got some work I gotta do on the Impala, and I wouldn’t mind some company.”

Cas glanced down at the books. “I don’t think I would be of much help on a car.”

“Did I ask for help?” Okay, that came out a little more sharply than he intended. He was really gonna have to work on that patience thing.

Cas didn’t react though, just pursed his lips and seemed to be debating. “I think…I would like to see the Impala. I read a lot about her.”

Dean felt a grin spread across his face. “Come on then; she’s even more of a beauty in person. No offense to Chuck, but his words can’t do her justice.”

Cas rose stiffly from his chair and started following Dean toward the garage. “Dean,” he spoke up, quirking a brow. “How can an inanimate object have a gender?”

Dean smiled to himself. Cas was still Cas, memories or no. Inquisitive, clueless, loyal. And yeah, there were moments when Naomi’s brainwashing leaked through, when Cas’s curious gaze slipped into neutral detachment, but it started happening less and less. Glimpses of the Cas they knew began surfacing more, giving Dean hope. He was in there somewhere, and they _would_ find him.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's some fluffy Christmas feels to break up some of the angst. Tis the season and all. Happy Holidays!

Dean sat in the Impala, fuming at the dash. He’d come to check on Kevin, see how decoding the demon tablet was going, invite him to spend Christmas with them at the bunker, and lo and behold, Garth’s houseboat had been completely empty. All their stuff and translation notes, gone. Dean should’ve seen it coming, what with Kevin’s rantings about Crowley being in his head.

He pulled out his phone and called Sam.

“Ye-ap?”

“Kevin’s gone.”

“ _What?_ ”

“Whole place is bare, no sign of him. The little geek made a run for it.” Dean pinched the bridge of his nose. If it wasn’t one thing, it was another.

“But,” Sam stammered. “The tablets, and the trials…”

“Hey, Kev wants the gates of Hell slammed shut as much as we do. He’ll get in touch when he knows something.” In the meantime, Dean wasn’t going to let this hiccup ruin the holidays. “I’ve got some more errands to run, so I’ll probably be a few hours. How’s Cas?”

“You’ve been teaching him to hover,” Sam said grumpily, followed by a muffled cough. “He wouldn’t _move_ until I finished my soup. Not even a twitch. Like a damn statue.”

Dean’s lips quirked. As much as Sam was looking after Cas when Dean had to go on supply runs, it was nice having Cas to look after Sam as well. Things were…easier, now that the pressure had been lifted from them all. Cas was still working on translating books from the archives, but he wasn’t at it 24/7 anymore. In fact, he’d taken to reading completely useless works of fiction (who knew the Men of Letters even had that?), though at first he had mistaken them for actual accounts until Sam explained otherwise.

_“I have watched the earth for millennia, and I have never seen or heard of a hobbit.”_

_“Oh, well Tolkien made them up. Middle Earth is a fantasy world; it’s not actually our Earth.”_

_Cas cocked his head. “That makes sense then.”_

_“Wait till you get to the elves and dwarves,” Dean snickered, figuring fantasy would be too much of a reach for Cas’s rational brain to handle._

Turned out, the nerdy angel actually _liked_ high fantasy. And to Dean’s astonishment, seemed to understand and accept its premises much better than sci-fi. It figured; Cas was just destined to never understand Dean’s references. Which, was kind of reassuring, in a weird way.

That didn’t mean things were great, or that Dean still didn’t nurse worries in the back of his mind. Cas may have been making progress reintegrating into their family, but there was still the fact that he was stuck in the bunker indefinitely with those stupid sigiled bracelets. On the one hand, Cas didn’t even ask to be let out. Probably due to him wanting to hide in the safety of the bunker and not have to confront a world he knew nothing about. But that couldn’t last forever. Nor did Dean want to see Cas remain a prisoner, even in his own home.

Problems for another day though. There wasn’t much Dean could do right now for the amnesiac angel, a sick Sam, or the now MIA Kevin, but he wasn’t just going to sit around brooding. It was Christmas Eve, and for the first time in a long while, the Winchesters had a home to celebrate it in.

After hanging up with Sam, Dean headed to a Christmas tree lot. He’d intended to walk in, grab the first spruce he saw, and leave. But who knew picking a tree could be so damn difficult? For as he looked at the various sizes, Dean realized he had to consider not only the space of the room it would go in, but whether it’d fit through the garage door. And then there was the fact that he’d have to strap it to the roof of the Impala to get it home. At the thought of scratching up his baby’s paint job, Dean almost scrapped the whole idea, but dammit, he wanted this Christmas to be special. For all of them. Which meant all the holiday fixings.

He also hadn’t known a tree would be so freakin’ expensive. It probably would’ve been better had he taken an axe into the woods surrounding the bunker and chopped one down himself. Oh well. Dean stopped at a shopping center for supplies to cook a Christmas dinner, picked up a few decorations (because really, what was a Christmas tree without lights and ornaments?), and lastly some presents. Satisfied that he’d covered all the bases, Dean headed back to the bunker.

He texted Sam once he was in the garage. _“You and Cas get your butts out here and help unload.”_

He untied the bungee cords holding the tree down and then heard the inner door creak open.

Sam’s brows shot up in surprise as he approached. “Dude, is that…?”

“Yup.” Dean stepped back, blocking the trunk. He needed to get the gift bags in first, before Sam spotted them.

Cas tilted his head. “Isn’t there an easier way to get firewood?”

“This isn’t for burning,” Dean explained. “It’s a Christmas tree.”

Cas just gave him a blank look. Oh for cryin’ out loud, was Dean gonna have to give _an angel_ a Sunday school lesson on Christmas?

Sam blinked as though he’d just figured that out as well. “Christmas is when people celebrate the birth of Christ. They put pine trees in their homes and decorate with lights and ornaments. Families usually get together for a big dinner and exchange presents.”

“Oh.” Cas pursed his lips. “So, this is something you… _we_ , do every year? As a family?” he asked hesitantly.

Dean and Sam exchanged a look.

“No,” Sam said, more subdued. “We were always on the road or working a case. There wasn’t really time for stuff like this.”

“Oh.” Cas ducked his gaze, looking embarrassed.

Dean cleared his throat. “Which is why we’re doing it this year. We’ve got the bunker, the three of us, and everything we need. I even got a Christmas ham.”

Sam arched a brow. “Seriously?”

“Honey-glazed,” he said proudly. “And fresh-baked pumpkin pie. Now you and Cas get this tree inside while I take care of the bags. And don’t scratch the paint.”

o.0.o

Sam was blown away that his brother had gone to all this effort for Christmas. They had a real tree with lights and bulb ornaments. A ham was in the oven slowly heating up, and even with Sam’s stomach not in top shape, it smelled damn good. Dean was also making yams and mashed potatoes, and was puttering around the kitchen more perky than Sam had seen him in…well, years. And for the first time in longer than he could remember, Sam found something to be thankful for this holiday season. Yeah, things weren’t perfect, but they were together. Him, Dean, and Cas.

Cas was standing in front of the decorated tree, staring at the two packages wrapped in green and red paper sitting underneath. Sam guessed that was why Dean had insisted _they_ handle the unwieldy tree into the bunker while he mysteriously disappeared for twenty minutes. And then the sneak had waited until Sam and Cas were unpacking the groceries before he slipped the presents under the tree. Sam just shook his head. He was at a disadvantage, of course, having to scrounge around the bunker for a gift while Dean had been out shopping. He was intensely curious what his brother had gotten Cas too.

Cas suddenly shifted, turning as though to take a step, and then hesitating. His jaw worked as he glanced at the presents again.

“Cas?” Sam asked, coming forward. “What is it?”

Cas looked at him, seeming distressed. “That package has my name on it.”

“Uh, yeah.”

“I don’t have anything to give you and Dean.”

_Oh_. Of course, in trying to include Cas, they’d almost accidentally _excluded_ him, simply because he wasn’t familiar with human traditions.

Sam smiled kindly. “You and I are in the same boat.”

Cas’s frown deepened, and he looked around as though to say, ‘there’s no water…’

Sam bit back a chuckle. “I haven’t found something to get him yet either. What do you say we see what treasures are lying around downstairs?”

Cas cocked his head in confusion. “But everything here belongs to you already. How can it be a gift?”

“Having access to resources and making something personal are very different.” Sam gestured for Cas to follow him downstairs, but stopped when Dean stuck his head out of the kitchen.

“Hey, I know angels don’t need to eat, but you can, right? It won’t make you sick will it?”

Cas furrowed his brow. “No, I am capable of eating, but—”

“Good, then you’re gonna enjoy this meal with us.” And with that, he ducked back into the kitchen. At least he’d be busy in there for a while, so no chance he’d interrupt their scavenger hunt and ruin whatever surprises they found.

Sam grinned. “Come on, Cas.”

They headed down to one of the artifact rooms. Sam already had a good idea of the kinds of stuff that were down there, and knew of a few items that’d make perfect gifts for Dean. He held back from digging them out right away though, and spread his arms to encompass the myriad of articles lining several shelves, as Cas just stood in the entry and stared unblinkingly.

“Dean’s into weapons. I’m sure there’s some cool, antique stuff he’d love to add to his wall.”

“I do not understand why he mounts them there. They cannot be used in battle that way.”

Sam hid a smirk. “Some things are works of art as much as they are functional.”

Cas shifted his weight as he looked around. “And this is…acceptable?”

“Of course.” Sam turned and started down one row of shelves. He knew it wouldn’t matter what Cas picked out to give Dean; his brother would appreciate that Castiel had wanted to make the effort to begin with. And when it came to gift-giving, it was always the thought that counted.

Sam meandered through the artifacts, occasionally glancing at Cas. It took the angel a full two minutes before he finally ventured into the stacks, and then another three before he started picking things up to examine them. Sam refrained from making suggestions. Though Cas’s brow had creased further and further the longer he sorted through various items, Sam was afraid that if he nudged Cas even a tiny bit, the angel would happily ‘fall into line’ and just unquestioningly follow what Sam said. And he did _not_ want to trigger that, not over this. Cas needed to do this for himself, needed to know he _could_ do it for himself. Even if watching him struggle made Sam feel bad.

They’d been in the storage room for an hour, and Sam was casting furtive glances toward the door, hoping Dean wouldn’t come looking for them, when he noticed Cas had stopped sifting through items, and was currently staring down with mouth pursed.

“Find something?” Sam asked, coming around the corner of the aisle.

Cas held a thirteen-inch dagger in his palms. The hilt was a simple, hourglass shape, made of iron, but the slightly crescent curved blade was gilded in silver and etched with swirling runes.

Sam let out a low whistle. “Nice.”

“It’s Gaelic,” Cas said softly. “A prayer for strength, protection, and victory in battle.” There was something sad in his voice, a trace of longing and regret, a deep-seeded yearning to be the one to answer that prayer.

Sam felt a pang in his chest. “Sounds perfect.”

Cas blinked, and that emotion was gone. “Have you found something to give Dean?”

“Actually, I think I have something in my room already,” Sam replied. “I found an antique gun a while ago, and I just remembered I set it aside to give him.”

Cas tilted his head thoughtfully. “Is it customary to plan so far in advance?”

Sam snorted. “Not really. Look at Dean, he did all his shopping last minute. But sometimes you just spot something and think it suits a particular person, so you grab it.”

Cas dropped his gaze to the dagger. He didn’t seem ready to leave, so Sam turned to exit and give him some privacy.

“Sam,” Cas called hesitantly.

“Yeah?”

“That colorful paper Dean used…”

Sam’s lips twitched. “I’ll leave some in your room.”

Cas nodded appreciatively, and Sam left him alone with the artifacts. He went straight to Dean’s room where he found the leftover wrapping paper, took a roll for himself, and dropped the rest in Cas’s room before heading to his own. Sam not only had a gift for Dean, but something for Cas too, another long lost item he’d discovered in the bunker’s collection. It was an old, leather-bound journal written by a Man of Letters from the late 1700s that detailed a series of encounters with a most surprising visitor—an angel.

Though hunters hadn’t heard of angels before the breaking of the Seals, the Men of Letters had obviously had knowledge of them, and this must have been the source. And, contrary to Dean’s belief that all angels were dicks, Cas excluded, Cordell Bowen’s experience seemed to say otherwise. The angel had visited him multiple times, and even aided him when he’d been lost in the wilderness. Sam was hoping the story might be the kind of good example Castiel needed: that choosing to help humans didn’t make an angel bad or disobedient. Sam had just been waiting for the right time to give Cas the journal, but it never seemed to come. Until now.

o.0.o

Dinner had been friggin’ amazing, and worth the bucks Dean had shelled out for it. Even Cas had admitted the taste was ‘pleasant,’ which, coming from him, was high praise. And the pie…Dean thought that would’ve been the highlight of his night, but then Sam had declared it was time to open presents, and Dean found that the number of gifts under the tree had tripled since he’d been in the kitchen all afternoon. Boy, his little brother was crafty.

They pulled chairs over to sit in a semi-circle around the Christmas tree. Dean had to bite his lip to keep from chuckling at the two square pieces of wrapping paper flatly sandwiched around whatever was inside, with all four edges folded up and over multiple times like origami. He’d guess that was Cas’s handiwork, and now realized why the angel and his brother had been conspicuously absent from helping him in the kitchen. But seriously, Sam couldn’t have taught him to use Scotch tape?

“Alright, me first.” Dean grabbed the presents he’d wrapped and handed them to Sam and Cas.

Cas didn’t quite seem to know what to do with it, and surreptitiously watched Sam as he simply ripped open the paper.

Sam broke into a wide grin as he removed the book and looked at the cover. “Ghandi’s autobiography. Nice.”

“Yeah, let me know if it’s any good,” Dean quipped. Not that he’d ever read it himself.

Sam snorted and chucked a piece of torn wrapping at him. Shaking his head, Dean turned expectantly to Cas, who began picking at the taped edges. Sam angled an amused look at Dean, but neither said anything as Cas carefully dissected the wrapping job. When the three books Dean had stacked together slid apart, Cas just blinked at them.

Dean shifted awkwardly. “The lady at the bookstore said they’re pretty good.”

Sam leaned over. “Oh yeah, The Wheel of Time series.” He flashed Dean a covert look of approval.

Cas ran a hand down the cover of the first book. “Thank you,” he said with full sincerity.

Dean tried not to squirm. It really wasn’t a big deal; it wasn’t like he hadn’t brought Cas books before. Though…he realized this was the first thing he’d given Cas that wasn’t an attempt to jog some long-lost memory.

“My turn,” Sam said, and bent down to pass a bulky package to Dean.

He tested its weight, noting the familiar distribution. With a barely contained grin, Dean tore the paper off and let out an audible breath at the antique pistol. It was black, with an embellished, steel-plated butt and a ribbon of silver that ran up to form the trigger. A relief engraving at the crux of the barrel showed a stormy sea and large-masted ship.

“Duude, is this a pirate’s pistol?”

Sam grinned and shrugged. “Who knows?”

Dean lifted the gun and angled it back and forth, admiring the way the light caught on the top of the barrel. “This is friggin’ awesome.”

He saw Sam giving Cas a pointed look, who was fidgeting uncomfortably in his chair. With a sigh, Sam leaned forward and scooped up the pancake present, which had Dean’s name on it, and handed it to him. Curiosity burning, he unfolded the paper and peeled one sheet back. He couldn’t help but smile at the ornate dagger inside.

“Wow, Cas, this is a beauty.”

Cas looked partially embarrassed, partially hopeful. “It says, ‘Da m’ riarachadh, is da m’ neartachadh’…um, it’s a Celtic prayer for protection and victory in battle,” he finished hurriedly before snapping his mouth closed and looking away.

Dean glanced at the runes. “It’s awesome, Cas. Thanks.”

Sam couldn’t seem to stop grinning, and grabbed the last present under the tree. “Here, Cas.”

Cas whipped his gaze back in bewilderment as Sam offered him the package. Dean stretched his neck to see what his brother had gotten the angel. Once again, it took Cas an annoyingly long time to carefully pry the tape loose without ripping the paper, but Dean didn’t snap at him to hurry up. He cast Sam a curious look when Cas pulled out a leather-bound journal.

Sam had his fingers interlocked as he leaned forward in earnest. “It’s a journal from a Man of Letters back in the late 1700s. He, uh, writes about his journey through the Appalachian Mountains and his encounter with…well, an angel.”

Dean straightened in surprise. _What?_

Cas’s brow had furrowed as he stared at the brown cover.

“It’s a fascinating account,” Sam plowed on. “And one that shows an angel helping a human. Several times, in fact. Because he wanted to. Because it was a good thing to do.”

Dean studied Cas carefully, watching for that telltale smoothing of his features and distant look in his eye, but it didn’t come. Instead, Cas curled his fingers around the journal’s binding tighter.

“Thank you, Sam,” he said in a soft, genuine tone.

Dean relaxed a fraction and exchanged a pleased look with his brother. _Good job, Sammy._

After a few moments of silence, he stretched his arms above his head. “Well, I’m ready for another piece of pie.”

Sam snorted. “Dude, you ate like a horse.”

“There’s always room for more pie.”

Cas cleared his throat awkwardly, pausing their banter, and the angel reached down under the tree for one last present Dean hadn’t seen, as it was only three-by-three inches and had been hidden under the others. Cas handed it to Sam.

Sam actually looked startled, but quickly recovered and unfolded the paper. A silver amulet fell into his palm, an outer circlet containing a tree with symmetrical roots and branches. On one side of the trunk was the sun, the other a crescent moon.

“It’s for protection and good health,” Cas said solemnly.

Dean felt a lump gather in his throat. Cas’s gifts were more thoughtful than he would’ve given the angel credit for, and more meaningful because the objects represented what Cas truly wanted to give the Winchesters—what he’d always wanted to give them.

Sam closed his hands around the amulet and pulled Cas into a hug. Cas stood there awkwardly, arms hanging limp at his sides, and Dean just shook his head.

“Thanks, Cas,” Sam said before drawing back.

Cas glanced between the brothers almost shyly. “So, that was correct then? The presents?”

Dean grinned. “You nailed it, man.”

“Best Christmas ever,” Sam agreed with a wide grin, shooting Dean a grateful look as well.

Dean smiled back. This right here, was everything. Everything they’d ever fought for. Family. Home. Belonging. And as Dean watched Sam and Cas pick up the torn wrapping paper, and the looks of joy and peace in their respective eyes, he felt stirrings of the same for the first time in a long while. Because in this moment, it wasn’t about trying to regain what they’d lost, what Cas had lost. It was about holding on to what they had. And making new memories.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some lines from "The Great Escapist"

It was only a matter of time before the shit hit the fan. Dean watched the video Kevin had emailed him from some remote server or whatever, listened dumbfounded to the words that spilled from his mouth, frantic and anguished.

_“I’m dead, you bastards!”_

Kevin hadn’t split, hadn’t gone into hiding. Crowley had gotten him after all, after Dean had sworn it was impossible. He angrily swiped a stack of books off the table, sending them crashing to the floor. He should’ve moved Kevin to the bunker, should have done more. And now Crowley…god, he was just a kid.

_“I’m sorry. I know it was my job, but I—but I couldn’t…”_

Sam and Cas watched him in silence, and then Sam was clicking the links Kevin had left them and printing out all his notes. Dean snapped out of his internal torment and tried to ring Garth, though he didn’t answer. What a surprise. Garth had been MIA longer than Kevin. Dean called around to a few more hunters, but none had seen the quirky nerd. One bit of good news…depending on how one looked at it—no new prophets seemed to have been called. Which meant Kevin wasn’t dead, but likely being tortured at the hands of Crowley. And they had no leads.

Except Kevin’s notes, which they immediately got down to going through.

“Hmm,” Sam murmured after a while. He picked up another page and compared it to the one he’d been reading. “There it is again, every time.”

Dean looked up. “What?”

Sam angled the paper across the table so he and Cas could see. “This symbol? I know it.”

Cas furrowed his brow thoughtfully. “I read Kevin’s notation on it: it’s the mark of the Scribe of God, Metatron.”

“Okay…?” Dean flicked his gaze between the two of them.

“But I think I’ve seen it before,” Sam continued eagerly. “I mean, it was a long time ago. It was one of my, uh, humanities courses at Stanford.”

“They taught Word of God at Stanford?” Dean snorted.

Cas cocked his head. “I highly doubt that.”

Sam shot them both exasperated looks. “No, uh, it was an overview of Native American art—I think it’s a petroglyph.”

“A petro-what-now?”

Sam pushed out of his chair. “Give me a minute.”

Dean threw one hand up impatiently as Sam strode to the bookshelves and skimmed various spines.

“I’m sorry I can’t help you get the prophet back,” Cas said somberly.

Dean shook his head and rested his arms on the table. “It was my job to protect him.”

“You can’t save everyone.”

A hard lump in his throat threatened to choke him. That’s what Cas had said when he’d told Dean he’d chosen to stay behind in Purgatory. Dean hadn’t gotten Cas out. And then when Cas was back, Dean hadn’t been able to save him from Naomi. Now Kevin… Well, screw that. Yeah, he couldn’t save _everyone_ , but it wasn’t everyone he needed to save; it was a few choice people. It was the people he cared about more than anything in the world.

Sam suddenly slammed a book onto the table and pointed to the symbol on the page. After a hasty history lesson and debate, Dean finally agreed to drive out to Colorado looking for the actual “Messenger of God.” Though really, Metatron was hiding out in the mountains with a bunch of Indians? It was probably going to be a colossal waste of time and gas, but it was the only way to get Sam to calm down. His little brother had wanted to come, but no way was Dean letting him make the trip in his weakened condition. Plus, Cas couldn’t even go, and now Dean was paranoid that if they left him alone, Naomi would find the bunker and take Cas away while he and Sam were gone. So to compromise, Dean got stuck chasing the wild goose while his brother and angel got to stay home and relax.

Turns out it’s not paranoia when they’re really out to get you. He hadn’t even made it a full mile away from the bunker when a woman with red hair wearing a business suit was suddenly standing in the middle of the road. Dean swerved to avoid hitting her, running the Impala off the pavement and into a few scraggly bushes.

_Son-of-a-bitch!_

He whipped his head around, but she’d vanished. Scrambling out of the car, Dean only made it three steps before there was a flutter of wings that made his blood run cold.

“Dean Winchester, I believe you have something of mine.”

o.0.o

Sam’s phone buzzed as the caller ID lit up with Dean’s name. “Dude, you haven’t even been gone ten minutes,” he answered.

“Sam Winchester,” a cold, female voice responded.

His spine went ramrod straight. “Who the hell is this?”

“That’s not important,” she replied cooly. “What you need to know is I’m outside your secret bunker, with your brother.”

Sam’s hand tightened around his phone, and he saw Cas glance up sharply from his reading. “What do you want?” he growled.

“Castiel and the angel tablet.”

_No_. Sam exchanged a wide-eyed look with Cas. There was no doubt his angelic hearing was letting him eavesdrop.

“Bring them out,” the woman continued. “Or your brother is on the first train to the next life. I wonder if he’s headed up or down this time.” The call clicked as she disconnected.

Sam jerked the phone away from his ear and stared at the darkening screen. Shit, was that Naomi? How had she found them? Dean hadn’t been gone long enough for her to capture and torture him for information, not that he’d ever give up the bunker’s location. But what had she done to get his phone?

Cas pushed out of his chair abruptly, scraping the legs across the wood floor. “You have to let me out.”

“Cas, hold on, think for a minute!” Sam’s heart was racing, but he needed to keep his head clear if he was going to save his brother. “We don’t have the angel tablet, remember? If this is Naomi, she’s not just gonna accept that.”

“She still wants me.”

“Yeah, and there’s no way in hell I’m handing you back over to angels to be tortured.” _Or brainwashed again._

“But Dean—”

“Dean wouldn’t want that either.” Sam ran a hand through his hair. They didn’t have much time. He really didn’t know how long Naomi would wait before she started hurting Dean. And Dean _was_ alive. Because angels couldn’t get into the bunker, so Naomi needed leverage. Unless she just planned to wait and starve them out. Dammit, what was he supposed to do?

“Sam,” Castiel said firmly. “We have no choice.”

His stomach twisted into knots. How was he supposed to sacrifice Cas for Dean? Or vice versa?

Sam dropped his gaze to the sigiled bracelets on Cas’s wrists. Taking them off would mean powering Cas up, which they definitely needed. But would it also mean opening him up to Naomi’s control again?

“Leave them on,” Cas said, a slight waver in his voice. Apparently he was afraid of the same thing. “When we get out there, you can trade me for Dean.”

“That’s not what I’m doing, Cas,” Sam nearly growled. _Wasn’t it though?_ How the hell was he supposed to take on an angel by himself and actually succeed?

“I know, Sam,” Cas said with gentle understanding. “But it will appear that way. Just like with the Wookiee in that movie we watched.”

Sam blinked. Cas had just pulled a play from a pop culture reference. And Dean had missed it.

It wasn’t a bad plan though. It wasn’t a _good_ one either, but Cas was right: they had no choice.

Sam sprinted into the other room and retrieved their angel blades, then met Cas at the foot of the stairs leading up to the door. Cas’s shoulders were pulled taut as he stared intently at the warding keeping angels from passing in or out.

“Here.” Sam held out one of the angel blades—Cas’s angel blade.

Cas’s mouth tightened as though it might bite. “Sam, if…”

He pressed the sword into Castiel’s hand and closed the angel’s fingers around it. The last time that blade had been used, it’d almost killed its owner and Dean. But Cas had fought Naomi’s control that time, and Sam believed he could do it again. “I trust you, Cas.”

Cas stared at the sword for a long moment, fear, doubt, and determination warring across his expression. But he finally gave a slow nod and slipped the blade inside his coat sleeve.

With that, Sam took a deep breath as he marched up the stairs to disarm the angel warding.

o.0.o

Castiel blinked as he stepped into the sunlight. It was like being born, emerging into a brand new world he’d never laid eyes on before. The fresh air was instantly intoxicating, full of aromas of pine, cedar, wet leaves, and a myriad of other scents he didn’t have time to process or bask in. For ten feet away stood another angel. Castiel knew that instinctively, though he didn’t know her name. She wore a pinstripe suit, red hair pulled back in a bun. A few feet away from her, Dean sat on the ground, one arm wrapped around his torso as though holding against pain. His eyes widened as Castiel and Sam emerged.

“Sam, no.”

“Be silent,” the angel snapped.

Castiel heard the rush of wings and felt the presence of two more angels materialize behind him. Sam started to turn when the female flung her arm out, and Sam went flying through the air to land next to Dean on the ground, grunting as he hit.

Castiel wanted to move toward the brothers, but he found himself inexplicably frozen in terror as the red-headed angel slowly approached him. She roved her gaze up and down his form, pursing her lips.

“Oh, Castiel. What have they done to you?”

His brow furrowed.

She tsked and threw the Winchesters a contemptuous look. “They’ve been keeping you prisoner all this time. We searched everywhere for you, Castiel, but this warding they have…” She gestured at the bunker behind him.

He narrowed his eyes at her. “Who are you?” Castiel knew the answer though, as something cold slithered through his stomach.

She smiled, yet it was anything but kind. “My name is Naomi. I’m here to rescue you.” She snapped her fingers, and the sigiled bracelets split apart to fall on the ground.

Castiel felt his grace swell with newfound freedom, and his first instinct was to spread his wings and soar into the ether. But the other two angels were standing close, flanking him, yet there was nothing friendly or supportive in their proximity. Not the way Castiel felt when Sam and Dean sat next to him at the table or on the couch.

“Now, that’s better, isn’t it?” Naomi said pleasantly.

Castiel couldn’t help but flex his wings tentatively. They ached from disuse. He lifted his gaze to Naomi again and found himself giving a small nod.

“Good, it’s time to come home now, Castiel.”

“Cas, no!” Dean cried.

Naomi whipped her hand out toward the Winchester again, and he doubled over, coughing up blood and clutching his stomach.

“Dean!” Sam gripped his brother’s shoulders, holding him up as he retched.

Panic flared in Castiel. “Don’t!”

Naomi spun toward him, arching her brows in disbelief. “Don’t…?”

_Don’t question._

“Don’t hurt them,” he forced out in a quiet, pleading voice.

She stared at him. “Castiel, these humans are vermin. Look at how they imprisoned you! To corrupt you, to _use_ you for their own selfish ends.”

He wanted to shake his head, to argue. No, Dean and Sam hadn’t used him. They’d been patient and kind, and treated him…like _family_. They were trying to protect him. Even now, they were watching him, eyes terrified as though they were afraid for _him_ and not themselves.

“We’re supposed to be their shepherds,” he said instead, unsure why there was a slight quaver in his voice.

Naomi looked at him sharply. “Not always, angel.” She shook her head. “It seems your time away from Heaven has clouded your mind. It’s understandable. I can’t imagine what lies they filled your head with.”

“You bitch!” Dean snarled. “You’re the one who screwed with his head!”

“Just go, Cas!” Sam shouted. “Run!”

“I told you to be silent!” Naomi snapped her fingers, and suddenly the Winchesters’ mouths were moving, though no sounds came out. She smoothed her suit jacket as she turned back to Castiel. “Now, bring me the angel tablet, Castiel.”

_Follow orders._

“I can’t.”

Her eyes sharpened, flickering with malicious intent. “You…can’t?”

“A demon named Crowley has taken both the angel tablet and the prophet.” Castiel blinked. Why had he told her that?

Naomi’s expression slackened in disbelief, but it quickly turned to ire and she whirled on the Winchesters. “You fools!” she spat. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” She waved her hand, and an invisible blast of power flattened Sam and Dean into the ground. The brothers writhed under its unrelenting gravity, silent screams ripping from their muted throats.

“Stop!” Castiel lunged to drag Naomi away from the Winchesters, but the two angels behind him were quicker and grabbed his arms, wrenching them painfully behind his back. His outburst at least served to distract Naomi though, for she released the brothers and turned to face him.

“Excuse me?”

Castiel struggled uselessly against the two angels. “Leave them alone.”

Her eyes roved up and down him like a predator. “Are you questioning me?”

_Don’t question._

Castiel gritted his teeth. “There’s no reason to hurt them.”

Naomi reeled back as though in shock. “Every single time,” she muttered. “No matter how many times I erase those rebellious inclinations from your mind, you _still_ fall back into them.”

Castiel’s blood ran cold. He’d assumed Naomi had wiped his memory just the one time. But it had been more? How many? How many times had she torn into his head and washed it clean? Who was he anymore? A blank slate, something to be written over and programmed?

_Don’t question._

_Follow orders._

He looked toward the Winchesters, who lay gasping for breath. These past several weeks with them, Sam and Dean had emphasized Castiel’s free will in almost everything. It had been confusing at first, being told he wasn’t allowed to leave, but then them insisting he choose what to do with his time. They had encouraged him to make his own decisions, and respected them when he did. They pushed him _to question_ , and never ordered him around.

Naomi followed his gaze, lip curling in disgust. “I’m going to give you one last chance, Castiel. Be a good angel and do as you’re told. Kill them.”

Castiel stared at her in horror. _No_.

_Don’t question._

_Follow orders._

He flinched at the insistence of those commands, throbbing within his mind like drills. No, he didn’t want to hurt Sam and Dean.

_I just want to be a good angel._

But what did that even mean? The voices in his head were screaming now, demanding obedience. That’s what made a good angel. But how could it when the commands were _wrong_?

_“You’re not a bad angel. Hey—do you believe me?”_

_“—shows an angel helping a human. Several times, in fact. Because he wanted to. Because it was a good thing to do.”_

_“I asked Abdiel why he continued to travel with me. My ‘good deed for Heaven’ had been completed, the village now equipped with the knowledge they needed to ward off demons. The return journey to the colonies would be no less treacherous, but that was not Abdiel’s concern. Still, he brought me food when game was scarce, kindled my fire when my fingers were too numb to strike a flint, and sat with me when the shadows of the night began playing tricks on the mind of someone who knows far too well what may be hiding in them. And though I feared my question would send him away, I could not help but ask why he continued to watch over me._

_‘Because,’ he had said. ‘I am an angel of the Lord.’”_

Castiel felt something small crack deep inside him. _I am an angel._ A servant of Heaven. Shepherd of man.

“No,” he said, not even realizing the other voices had suddenly silenced.

Naomi blinked. “No?”

Castiel drew his shoulders back, still restrained by Naomi’s lackeys. “No. I will not hurt Sam and Dean.” Because they had done nothing wrong. Because they were good men, fighting the evil in this world though it cost them everything. And now Castiel saw clearly, though it broke his heart, that angels had become one of those evils. This was not God’s will.

Naomi gaped at him for a long moment, a vein in her neck bulging. “ _Why_ don’t you ever fully _obey_?” she seethed.

He met her gaze solemnly and cocked his head. “I don’t know.” Then Castiel looked toward the Winchesters again, their eyes wide with fear. “But it’s the right thing to do.”

He dropped his angel blade into his hand and jammed it backward into the thigh of the angel on his right. With a cry of agony, the angel staggered back, and Castiel spun around to face the second. That one was taken by surprise, and couldn’t draw his blade before Castiel drove his into the vessel’s chest. Bright white light exploded from the mouth and eyes.

The wounded angel brandished his sword and lunged at Castiel, but he threw his own blade up in time to block. The impact vibrated down his forearm, yet there was something swift and instinctive unfurling inside him, and Castiel dropped his blade in order to grab the other angel’s wrists. Using the strength of his opponent’s own momentum, Castiel arced the sword down and around to plunge upward into the angel’s chest. He died in an explosion of grace like the first.

Before Castiel could retrieve his blade, an invisible force slammed into him, propelling him backward to smack against the outer wall of the bunker. Pain lanced down his spine, and stars momentarily danced across his vision as he slumped to the ground. It was then he felt something warm trickling down the inside of his cheek, and when he lifted the back of his hand to his face, it came away smeared with bright crimson.

Blinking through the haze, Castiel raised his head as Naomi marched toward him. He tried to get up, but she snapped her fingers, and his head cracked back against the concrete. A combination of red and glowing white fizzled across his field of vision.

“I’m done trying to fix you, Castiel.” The glint of an angel blade appeared in her hand.

His head felt like it was splitting open, and he couldn’t get his legs and arms to react to the threat looming over him.

“You’re an aberrance, a mistake that never should have been created.” Naomi sneered. “Something I intend to rectify.”

“Hey, bitch.”

She twisted around just as Dean thrust an angel blade into her sternum. A surprised gasp choked in her throat.

Dean was solid fury, eyes blazing as he pressed his face near Naomi’s startled one. “You will never touch him again.”

With that, he twisted the blade. Naomi’s back arched, and a split second later, blinding light exploded outward in every direction. The concussive force hit Castiel head-on with a whoomp, drowning him in a cascade of blackness.

o.0.o

Dean wrenched the angel blade from Naomi’s chest, letting her drop to the ground. Then he snapped his gaze to Cas as his friend started sliding sideways down the wall.

“Cas!” Dean bolted to his side, catching his shoulders before he cracked his head on the cement. Rivulets of blood were streaming from his eyes. _No, no, no. Not again. Please._

“Cas, wake up!” Dean cupped Castiel’s face. “Don’t do this, man. Open your eyes.”

Sam dropped down beside him, hands hovering as though he didn’t know what to do. Cas didn’t respond or even twitch. He was out cold. Or dead.

_No_. Three sets of angel wings were scorched into the ground around them. Not four. Cas was still alive. But was he hurt? Had Naomi…?

“Let’s get him inside,” Dean said hoarsely. He and Sam each slung one of Cas’s arms over their shoulders and carried the angel down to his room where they laid him on the bed. Dean retrieved a towel from the bathroom and cleaned the blood off Cas’s face, all while memories of a hemorrhaging Cas trying to stab himself assaulted him. This wasn’t like last time, he told himself. It couldn’t be.

But Dean had no idea what he was dealing with. Both times Cas had started bleeding from his eyes had been when he’d refused to obey Naomi. But was the memory wipe she’d performed something she actively had to do, or was it a programmed punishment and she only had to flip a mental switch? When Cas woke up, would he once again be on factory reset? Dean didn’t know if he could handle another round of that.

He pulled the desk chair over to sit by Cas’s bed. Though the angel had been living in the bunker with them for the past several weeks, he hadn’t ever slept on it. Until now.

Dean tore his gaze away from his friend’s still face and roved it around the room. There was an ancient tome on the desk, open to the page Cas had left off in his translations. A group of fantasy books sat on a mounted wall shelf, with one sitting on the nightstand next to the bed, along with the journal Sam had given him. Cas had been settling in, gradually making this place his home as much as the Winchesters had. Dean’s jaw tightened. That _wouldn’t_ change.

Sam had disappeared, only to return twenty minutes later. “I stashed the bodies in the garage until we can burn them properly,” he said as he went to stand on the other side of Cas’s bed.

Dean barely managed a nod of acknowledgement. Yeah, they needed to take care of that. But at the moment, he couldn’t drag himself away. Desperate hope warred with practical despair. Winchester luck, or curse, whatever they called it, always bit them in the ass. Cas was no exception.

Sam gazed down at the unconscious angel for a long moment before speaking. “You heard what Naomi said, Dean. No matter how many times she…” His voice hitched. “He’s still Cas. He’s always been Cas. That’s something she could never destroy, so even if we have to start all over…”

Dean looked up into the pain-filled eyes of his brother. Sam was trying to hold it together as much as he was. But what Sam said was true—Naomi could wipe Cas’s memories, instill her Bible Camp brainwashing and bury Castiel’s spirit so deep he couldn’t possibly find his way out. But he did. Over and over, it seemed. So he would again. Because he was Cas. And because Dean and Sam would be there to help him.

Castiel’s lifeless fingers suddenly twitched, and Dean snapped his gaze first to them, then to Cas’s face where his eyes moved sluggishly beneath his closed lids.

“Cas?” Both Dean and Sam leaned forward, anxious, hopeful, maybe even daring to pray.

When Cas finally blinked several times and slid his gaze around dazedly, they held their breaths. Dean knew something inside him would break if Cas gave him the blank look of a stranger. But as those blue eyes drifted to the side and gradually focused on him, the barest smile graced Cas’s face.

“Hello, Dean.”


End file.
